The smell of the freshly fallen snow is unmatched
The white blanket covers all of life imperfections
The cleanliness of cold air is purity distilled,
Perfectionists rejoice.
The flowers and rains are earthy and funky
The colors and sprouts hint at possibilities
That funk hints at the life that spawns it,
Futurists hope.
The heat and humidity cloy and smother
Visible waves of heated air distorting vision
Introspectively wondering at our life’s course,
Philosophers ponder.
Hints of decay and drying vegetation tantalize
The variety of transitions intriguing in its potential
As the possibilities nested within choices manifest,
Dreamers dream.
Are there really Seasons?
Are there personality types?
Do things come in bins or do we organize them that way?
Isn’t life both quantum and continuous?
I shift from Dreamer to Philosopher to Whatever to Whoever,
Moment to moment.
Weather or a Season or Climate?
I am all those things and I am none of them.
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